knotyoureality

Reading: "Jacquard's Web: How the hand loom led to the birth of the information age" by James Essinger.

Doing: Recovering from the final weekend of the Arizona Renaissance Festival

Needing: water, aspirin, and several gallons of skin cream.

Wanting: more belly dance lessons, more music, less sun.

The final weekend of the Arizona Renaissance Festival wrapped up last night with a rather sedate after-party. Patrons weren't spending as much and the gate may have been a bit lower than in recent seasons but the crowds were fun and rennies will find a way to enjoy themselves no matter the circumstances. Hail, dust storms, the occasional rattlesnake on the way to the porta-potty, it's all par for the course.

In an otherwise very enjoyable episode of Space: Above and Beyond, there is a very cheesy scene in which T.C. McQueen turns and writes "Who Am I?" upon a black and white printout of an alien fighter craft.
It's a moronic question and an example of really poor writing, a trite shortcut playing upon popular speech to avoid having to answer what the character is really asking of himself and the situation.
Just look at the dictionary definition of "who":
1. what or which person
2. the person or persons that
and my favorite
3. used to introduce a relative clause and to serve as a substitute therein for the substantive modified by the clause. Wheeee!
Who is T.C. Mcqueen? He's a pilot, an artifically gestated human, a marine, a loner, a man who has stopped allowing himself personal connections and someone fearful of allowing himself to be redefined. Dig into the seemingly profound inquiry of "who" and you find the rich complexity of the inevitable "what".
No one is ever really a "who", we're "what's". What we are doing, what we are thinking, what we want from and do in our lives and what parts we play in the lives of others.

So what am I?
I'm a daughter, a sister, an ex-wife, a niece and aunt, an ex-lover, a friend and an aquaintance. I'm an artist. I'm a bisexual, an athiest and a sometime intellectual. I'm a juggler, an environmentalist, a cat-owner and someone who knits badly. I'd argue I was never the person pictured up there in the photo you see, but my friends argue I must be to have been, and I'll accept that they may be right in part. Who I am is self-evident. I'm me. The person who remains when everyone else goes away. Problem solved. What I am, what I was, what I will be? Oy. Those are so much tougher.

While I recognize the value of smoke alarms, and appreciate that my life expectancy is greater and my insurance rates are lower for having them installed, there are nights I think I'd rather run the risk of burning to death in my bed.

What sadist designed these things? Yes, the piercing tones are meant to drive you insane so you wake out of even a drugged or drunken stupor, but that same tone makes it impossible to think when trying to assess why the bloody things are going off when there isn't any fire. Especially at 5 a.m. Especially with two howling cats wanting reassurance that they won't be eaten by the nasty beast on the ceiling.

Worse, I figured out why the one went off, fixed the problem, and tested--much to my cats' dismay--all the units. Whereupon I realized there was one remaining blinking light. Hellfire. Imagine a tired woman with frazzled hair in a poorly belted robe, holding down cats while counting off the seconds between blinks after having been woken from a dead sleep. Now imagine her tripping over said cats while hauling a ladder upstairs and replacing the battery three times before realizing that this unit is oh-so-slightly-different than the others. Yep, compatible but not identical, and on this one, the red light does indeed blink just to say hello periodically. Hello!

Somewhere on the carpet is a broken latch piece, part of a torn fingernail, and the last shreds of my patience.
If you can find them, you're welcome to them. I'm going back to bed.

Other suggested southwestern carols:

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Prong Horn
Jingle Shells
and
Frosty the Saguaro-Man


I happily spent December 25th, 2008 not celebrating Christmas. I slept in as long as the cats allowed, made a thoroughly average breakfast of french toast, watched a documentary on genetically modified crops, a discovery project show on research into increasing plankton blooms as a method of combatting global warming, and then crawled back into bed with a migraine. However, I can't say I didn't celebrate christmas at all this year. Earlier in the month I treated myself to a trip to visit my parents, bought myself a couple cool fossil pieces, gave and received a few christmas cards at work and picked up a few stray pine branches to stick in a vase at home. But the actual day of Christmas lacked all holiday-ness, purposefully and satisfyingly.

A good friend told me today that I shouldn't trust the journal articles I read as they are full of lies and don't include the real truth of what scientists are doing to "...kill our mother earth.". Instead I should trust her internet sites in which allegations are not backed by any numbers, statistical studies, sited publication or scientific explanations.

The topic of conversation that led to this declaration on her part was that of GMO's, specifically the genetic modification of human food stuffs.

I would have liked to discuss genetic modification in scientific terms, but she refuses to listen to anything that might place any positive value on genetic modifications of any sort. Nor will she consider taking the time to learn the basic scientific concepts needed to have such a discussion.

When I ask her for reference materials in the form of published articles, patents, or such for the claims she makes of scorpion venom in sweet corn or fish genes in tomatos, she explains away the lack thereof by saying scientists aren't publishing what they are really doing to our foods for fear of public outcry.

I'd like to discuss with her the question of specific vs. non-specific pesticides and herbicides, the global economic and environmental impact of varying agricultural practices, the issue of synthetic gene production and a wealth of exciting related topics. Sadly, those conversations aren't going to happen. She's too busy ranting on the evils of glow-in-the-dark chinese pigs. A pity really, because I'd love to fill her in on the amazing work done in using bioluminescence as a genetic marker and the remarkable amount of knowledge we're gaining from it's application.

But what's the use of talking if no one listens?

After fourteen years residency in Arizona, I now feel I can legitimately call myself a native daughter of the state. Early this morning, while I was preparing to top off the gas in my rental car, I was hit by an un-licensed and un-insured Mexican national. Buen venidos!

Thankfully no one was hurt. I was standing by the pump and the van's driver had walked away from his vehicle, leaving it in gear such that it rolled back into my car. A foot further back and it would have rolled freely across the lot, plowed thru some straggly oleanders and crunched to a stop in the gravel. A foot further back and I'd have driven away feeling little more than relief that I wasn't involved and a mild sorrow on behalf of the already struggling oleander.

Life, however, unfolded differently today. All our cumulative decisions, a million choices that continue to be made; ripples spreading beyond our control or comprehension.

Cosmically, it's a drop in the bucket. A single drop. A drip.
A "tang..tang..ting..tang..tang...tang..ting". Annoying, but far from unendurable.

Today's a day for mending. I've got a backlog of clothes with popped buttons, torn seams and hems too long for any but my highest heeled boots. Time and past time to get all this stuff done. Fixing these things will allow me to make use of all the options in my closet.

Today's a day for mending my life as well.

Torn clothes haven't been the only thing I've avoided. Excusing my actions as maturity instead of cowardice, I've gone out of my way to be out of the way of my ex-husband, who I'm sharing the house with until we can get it sold, and his girlfriend. Months ago, wanting to glue him into my psyche as "roommate", I gave him the same freedom any past roommate of mine would have--that of having their friends and significant others over. I was correct in judging that seeing them together in our house, although initially painful, would cement in my brain the surety that I harbored no desire to get back together with him. Unfortunately, I was over solicitous in the process and made myself a prisoner in my own bedroom anytime she was over.

Not surprisingly, the more scarce I made myself, the more comfortable they felt taking command of the house. I can't entirely blame them, but I can blame myself for not remembering that roommates have obligations as well as rights. And today I take back my time, possessions, space and rights.

The trash is taken out, my first load of laundry is started, my mending is sorted and piled ready for needle and thread to whip it into shape. Time to get things done.

Cacti I Have Known

The saguaro stands upright and tall
Home to creatures great and small
But should you bend and meet its young
Mind the kids, and bite your tongue.

The hedgehog cactus how sweet, devine.
Fuschia flowers bloom midst the spines.
But should a heel or toe intrude,
Oh woe is me, the cry is rude!

Famed as hedge and feed for cow
It tricked the farmers, oh and how.
For prickly still was the prickly pear
And still some spines did linger there.

Prickly, stickly, trickly beast,
Upon my flesh it wished to feast.
The teddybear cholla is poorly named;
I tried to hug it and now am maimed!

wsh 7/2008

I had several projects I intended to work on tonight, but after a moment of moderate 'grrrr' involving my roommate (he's also my ex-husband, how's that for 'grrrr'?), I decided to start work on the following:

A couple days ago, as is my habit, I skimmed the aisles of our local thrift store. (Hey, if you don't look, you can't find, right?) Scored better than usual with a wood jewelry box made in Japan, though by styling it could as easily be middle-eastern. I don't need another jewelry box, especially one with musty mustard-yellow lining and too few drawer dividers, but I really liked the box itself. I'm a bit of a box addict, though I usually manage to resist. I'm envisioning this one eventually holding a collection of natural oddities, misc. keys, or maybe writing materials. Frankly, if I ever get around to accumulating my much desired collection of small mammal skulls, this would be an ideal storage/display box.

To reach that point, I started by grabbing the pliers and ripping out the dividers and ring holders. Quite a bit of the lining came out with them, but the cardboard and adhesive the pseudo-velvet was attached to stuck firm. I've been alternately soaking and scraping to remove those and get to the bare wood. I'd hoped to find my flat razor blade holder to make the job easier, but no such luck. As serendipity often has it, however, my search did turn up the hiding place of my good scissors. I'd hidden them months prior to keep them from the hands of my cluelessly-using-good-scissors-to-cut-wire roommate.

Once I've gotten to bare wood, I'll lightly sand the outside, do some distressed paint treatments, sand again, and probably cover it all with a dark stain for a nice aged 'fresh from the temple' look. I haven't decided yet whether to leave the interior of the drawers plain, decoupage them with an exotic paper or gild them. Right now I'm leaning towards gilding as I love the mental image of lowly organic natural specimens against that luxurious, high-end surface.

"Getting The Words Right: 39 Ways To Improve Your Writing"
Theodore A. Rees Cheney
c2005 Writers Digest Books 2nd ed.

Although I was initially dubious thanks to the somewhat hokey subtitle, this book delivered a surprisingly satisfying and educational read. Separated into three sections titled simply "Reduce", "Rearrange" and "Reword", the reader is led thru both the process and the benefits of revision. The sections follow a logical progression which allows for efficient editing while reassuring the reader that they will learn to more freely apply these skills as they gain experience. Examples are plentiful and cover fiction, non-fiction, academic and business communications. Though not specifically addressed, many of these skills are equally applicable to poetry.

In keeping with the broad scope of the intended audience, the layout of the book is clearly designed to lessen any intimidation that might otherwise be felt by the reader. The text is interspersed with soothing graphics, blocks of bold print, and open white spaces. Examples are clearly delineated and placed within the explanatory text. The author also chose to use primarily examples from his own and his students' writing, giving the reader greater certainty that the revisions are true to the writer's original intent. By using student work, the author also allows the amateur writer to readily relate to even the advanced lessons. The tone is refreshingly casual and moments of humor abound.

These moments of humor are frequently applied in support of the author's core purpose: the writer's embrace of the revision process. Recognizing that many writers come from educational backgrounds that provide little editorial training, examples illustrating the benefits of self-editing are used throughout the book. These scenarios give concrete evidence of the need for precise and objective revision to improve the quality of the work and to meet the demands of real world publication.

The scope of the three major sections "Reduce", "Rearrange" and "Reword" is much more complete than might be assumed by the simplicity of their titles. "Reduce" addresses the removal of "...whole chapters, sections and paragraphs..", the elimination of superfluous material, and the shortening of longer ineffective words to more powerful shorter options. This initial purge is recommended as the initial revisionary step as it logically will remove the need to fine-tune sections that might otherwise later be removed entirely. "Rearrange", the longest of the sections, addresses concerns most often ignored by beginning writers who too frequently only look to basic grammatical and spelling errors. Unity of scope, consistency of character, effective transitions and the psychology of emphasis are only a sprinkling of the issues explored. "Reword" looks to accuracy and efficiency of the individual word.

I heartily recommend this book for anyone wanting to improve their writing, be they a student, a novelist reaching for publication or a business executive seeking to avoid the common pitfalls of internal communications.

Note: I have received no compensation, monetary or otherwise, for this review.

There's an oft misquoted bit about no sparrow falling without god's notice. Usually offered as a comforting platitude, the context of the quote is actually a warning to the disciples of christ that they will suffer for following their faith. Odd how often that sort of thing happens with passages from religious texts.

This quote, however, is significant to me as it played a part in my decision to actively question the existence of god. Was I really supposed to feel better that if there was suffering and loss, it was okay because it was god's will? Then someone dumped the omniscient/omnipotent claim into my brain and the whole thing fell apart entirely for me.

I was thinking again recently on the illogical claim that mankind, as created by god, has free will. After all, if god (and here read the christian version of the same) is omniscient and the creator of mankind, then god also knew ahead of time all the choices each individual would necessarily make, and thus created them to make those choices. No free will. What if the question is turned back on god's own existence? If god is omniscient, then god knows everything that will ever happen. If omnipotent, god must be able to change what happens. However, complete foreknowledge effectively precludes choice; if something is already known to inevitably be, it cannot be a choice. My only conclusion is that such a god must necessarily exist in an eternal "now" with all choices and actions known and made simultaneously. The experiment complete. You can't act against god's will for you've already lived your full potentiality as god experiences it. If something happens, it was meant to happen. Rape a child? Meant to happen else it could not happen at all.

It seems that god, by nature of the arguments made by christian faithful, must either live so far outside of our existence as to be completely irrelevant as we understand life or is one cranky bastard with a resume padded beyond belief.

In the end, I think it would be easier to believe in the existence of a god (or gods) if anyone could present me, not with physical evidence of their existence, but with evidence that he/she/it was an entity that had actually proven him/her/itself worthy of our aquaintance and notice.

Reading: "IQ: A Smart History of a Failed Idea" by Stephen Murdoch
"Seventh Son" (book one of the tales of Alvin Maker) by Orson Scott Card

Watching: Showtime: "Diary of A Call Girl"

Eating: leftovers

I can't seem to settle my thoughts on a singular topic this evening. My mind is too full of mindless acts, thoughts and statements. Marines throwing a puppy off a cliff and someone throwing a bag of kittens into traffic. A bi-girl complaining about the harm done to the LBGT community by all those fabulous flamboyant queers out there--as if she's never seen a ghetto-proud crowd decked out in grills, bling and pants down around their ankles being as loud and out on a street corner just a couple blocks away from her gay bar. Or a cowboy done up right for a night at the bar in a big hat, piped western shirt, jeans so tight you can tell if he's circumsised or not and a belt buckle big enough to shelter an entire family in a storm. I'm angry that the I.Q. tests so much of our society depends on were an utter sham. I'm angry that I have to worry about who hears me talk about gay marriage rights at work in case they file a complaint with Human Resources. I'm frustrated that education is about passing tests instead of learning skills and so many folks seem to see that piece of paper as a right instead of a reward for hard work.

I tried to find things of hope and beauty to lift my spirit today, but it's throwing a tantrum and stubbornly holding tight to the dusty ground.
These are the days I could almost wish to believe in a supreme being and thus have someone to blame for the state of our world. These are the wearying days on which personal responsibility feels far more a burden than the gift I actually know it to be. It's all just noise today, no order or sense.

I left Home Depot late Saturday morning, clutching my fistful of paint chips and wondering where I had left my car, when I caught a shimmer out of the corner of my eye. Looking down, I found the form of a fish laid out upon the baked asphalt drive. Amused, my first thought was this being a fitting end for one of those annoying Billy Bass creations. Looking closer, I realized this was no plastic replica, but a true bass, flattened but perfect in form, a piscine proto-fossil glimmering true-as-life in the arizona sun. His eye, peering sideways up at the world, captured mine, as if crying out in bewilderment at being so far from his native waters. I had no answers.

Such a waste, I thought, how shameful. Was this magnificent fish thoughtlessly cast from some passing boat or had he slipped away unnoticed? I found myself looking up and about, wanting to share this oddity, this dignified beast, with another, but found only suspicious sideway glances from passing shoppers, hurrying away in case the crazy lady sought to involve them in her inexplicable communion with the remains of a fish.

Fur: An imaginary portrait of Diane..

This movie stars Nicole Kidman as a 1950's housewife playing assistant to her photographer husband, trapped in a life that strangles her. Robert Downey Jr. plays the upstairs neighbor who moves in and turns her life upside down--or maybe just right side out. Intriguing, often incredibly disturbing, frequently overwhelmingly beautiful. Warning: this movie includes graphic nudity and sexual situations, some obscene language and probably shouldn't be watched by anyone who's never appreciated the beauty that can be found in the decaying wings of a dead bird. Not that there's a dead bird in the film, but it seems as good a litmus test for your sense of beauty as any. A love story, a coming of age story, a story of loss, fear, and finding the courage to be oneself.

Reading thru a child-free community here on LJ, I was amazed at the level of virulent disgust they displayed at the idea and their perceived reality of having children. Granted, I've been known to refer to "breeders" and mouth off on the horrors of having children now and then when frustrated, but I find it difficult to accept that any sane person could honestly choose to be child free based on the reasons they put forth.

I'm all for folks making a choice about having children. It's a big commitment that should, ideally, be consciously chosen. But these commenters refused to acknowledge any of the magic and beauty that children are capable of bringing to our lives. Children are portrayed as puking, pooping, soul-sucking burdens. Okay, sometimes they are. But they are also giving, loving, amazing, and illuminating. Best of all, a child free person doesn't have to give all of that up--we're often the best people to hand your kids over to when you're seeing them as soul-sucking monsters and need a break.

While I despise hearing the "childless people are selfish for not having children" arguements, believing as I do the opposite to generally be true, reading these comments leaves me wondering just how many soul-less, angry selfish people do end up choosing to be childfree. Would these same people abandon an elderly relative suffering from dementia, a spouse with cancer (who, trust me, can turn into a major puking, nasty, late night-burden far too often), or a friend with crippling emotional needs? Are they too selfish to look beyond their own immediate needs?

I've chosen to be child free for a number of reasons, including the firm belief that I'm simply incapable of providing the emotionally stable and nurturing environment a child should have. Nor am I entirely comfortable around young children. But I hope I'll never claim that children can never be a blessing well worth the burden, the heartache, the dirty diapers, and the cost.

Reading:  The Birth of Plenty: How The Prosperity Of The Modern World Was Created
                                                 Author: William J. Bernstein        McGraw-Hill c2004

                       "Who I am is what I have to give. 
              Quite simply, I must remember that's enough." 
                                            Anne Wilson Schaef  
                                            Meditations for WOMEN Who Do Too Much

   Setting aside the oddity of an author quoting herself within her own book, or the incredibly dismal read this book offered, I quite like this quote and suspect I should give it more consistent consideration in my life. 

   Ms. Schaef used this in reference to an alleged sex-linked predilection towards guilt on the part of women, a continuation in my mind of her rather poor opinion of women as a whole, but I prefer to apply it to the area of self-appreciation.  Not self-esteem, self-appreciation.  It's possible to appreciate oneself without believing oneself to be "all that" (if you'll forgive a lapse into current self-help vernacular). 

   Dropping the second sentence, I also like the implication of a duty towards growth.  Specifically growth that makes the person more themself.  Too often growth is defined as self-improvement, with the improvements limited to those deemed valuable to society rather than valuable to the self.  There are too many "I should's" in the world that have little to do with being a better individual and too much to do with meeting a rather artificial set of societal expectations.  More and more I'm finding the "I wants" are a better indication of where work is needed. 

                I want to be a better person.  I want to learn to paint.  I want to succeed
                in my chosen field of business.  I want to be healthy and physically fit.

   A goal that begins "I should..." is potentially suspect and a good candidate for re-examination.  There are a million Martha Stewart clones in the world, there's only one me.

 

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"Beauty is only skin deep."
"Everyone is beautiful in their own way."

I'm not disputing any of these statements. 

I will, however, point out that ugly must be in the eye of the beholder as well, that few people have x-ray vision to see the inside of others at a glance, and that the first and last statements guarantee that everyone's ugly to someone.

One of Marion Zimmer Bradley's Amazon of Darkover characters, upon being told she'd be pretty if only she grew out  her hair, responded quite reasonably that she had no use of being pretty.  She was a trail guide, not a dancer or entertainer.  When I first read those lines a lightbulb clicked on in my head.  I floated around for a couple weeks thinking MZB had gotten it exactly right.  Of course (and you saw this coming, didn't you?) , the input I received from the real world soon resulted in my yanking hard enough to not only turn that lightbulb off, but eventually pull the whole works out of its metaphorical ceiling mount.   

"Pretty" simply is useful.  The vast majority of our daily interactions are with strangers.  Folks who base their decisions on your immediately evident exterior.  Pretty gets attention, courtesy, interest, even patience and forgiveness and assistance more quickly and more often.  If you're lucky, you get a moment to shine, to show off your inner beauty, your spirit or compassion or whatever it is that makes you uniquely beautiful inside (Sam, don't try this with your gallbladder, please!), but most of the time you have to hope your cool necklace, or funky shoes or brilliant smile manage to do the job.  And then you buy your own damn drink.  

The point?  I'm not sure.  But sometimes I think it'd be nice to hear the admission that no, I'm not beautiful in the eye of my beholder but neither am I diminished in their estimation for being so.   

As long as Arthur Dent doesn't show up trailing a vogon construction fleet....

Why the name?  Well, there's your reality, then there's my reality and since I don't know enough about you, I'm stuck talking about myself.  Which isn't a bad thing as I'm a pretty cool person most of the time. Snarly, bad-tempered, and obnoxious too. But that probably describes all of  us on a bad day. 
Anyway, reality is troublesome, ties us up in knots ya' know, and one of my favorite escapes for the past umpteen years has been fiber arts--crochet, knitting, cross-stitch, embroidery, beading, etc.  I've even gone hardcore a time or two and attempted tatting!  (all together now...."oooooooooo!").  Luckily that last bit didn't stick. 
It's a genetic thing I think.  My paternal grandmother crocheted beautiful bedspreads, my mom does all sorts of fiber work (hey, mom!  give yourself a shout out, k?) including spinning, weaving, dyeing etc.  She's even written a self-published book on tri-loom weaving that's nearly awesome enough to tempt me into adding another hobby to my lists.  Nearly.  
So, knot-your-reality.  It's mine. All mine. And I'm determined that if I can't get it entirely un-tangled, I'll at least learn to enjoy the knots.  With any luck, I'll find a few people to share the journey.